


and knowing we are not alone in the dark

by alessandriana



Category: Dungeons and Dragons (Cartoon)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-24
Updated: 2014-12-25
Packaged: 2018-03-03 08:42:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 18,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2844929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alessandriana/pseuds/alessandriana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In search of their latest way home, Hank and Eric find themselves lost in a frozen wasteland, far from rescue.</p><p>  <i>Twenty feet. Ten feet. Five. He was reaching out. His fingertips just barely brushed the Vial, and in response it glowed brighter, welcoming, a wash of sunlight warmth against his face. Hank took another step forward, the way home within his reach—</i></p><p>  <i>—and the ice broke. </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [astolat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/astolat/gifts).



> Thanks to egelantier for the beta, the title, and the cheerleading. You rock.
> 
>  _It's the season of scars and of wounds in the heart_  
>  _Of feeling the full weight of our burdens_  
>  _It's the season of bowing our heads in the wind_  
>  _And knowing we are not alone in fear, not alone in the dark_  
>  \--Vienna Teng

"This is a bad idea, Hank!" Eric called, from his position on the bank of the lake, rope clenched tightly in his hands. Thousands of years of erosion had worn a deep gouge in the land, and the ground tapered off sharply in front of him, dropping fifty feet to the frozen water below. Eric leaned back and dug in his heels to brace himself on the frozen ground, keeping far back from the edge as he slowly played the rope out. 

"Now's-- not really-- a good time, Eric!" Hank forced out, groping for a handhold on the rock face. He curled his fingers around a protruding root, then shifted his weight onto his left foot and jammed his right into a tiny crack in the rock two feet below. The rope around his waist tightened uncomfortably as he descended, then loosened as Eric gave him some more slack. Theoretically it would allow Eric to catch him if he fell, but Hank was hardly willing to put that to the test. 

Several tense minutes passed, and finally when Hank stretched his foot down it touched ground instead of air. There was maybe a couple feet's width of gravely dirt at the base of the cliff, hardly even worth the title of beach, but enough for Hank to settle on without worrying about breaking through the ice. He leaned his forehead against the cliff and gave himself a moment to be grateful he'd made it to the bottom in one piece. Then he tilted his head back to look up at the cliff top. The hood of his cloak fell backwards off his head, and the freezing wind ruffled his hair. "Alright, I'm down!" he called up.

Eric's face popped over the edge. "Took you long enough! Do you see it?" he asked, shielding his eyes with a hand.

Hank turned to squint across the lake. Although the day was gloomy and overcast, the snow and ice still sparkled a brilliant white, making it hard to see. He gave it a good minute before he shook his head and looked back up at Eric. "No, nothing, but with all this cloud cover there's no way to tell if the suns are all touching the horizon yet or not. You?"

Eric was still gazing out at the lake. "Nada," he said, frustration coloring his voice. Then he winced and rubbed at his spine. "Plus, I think I pulled something in my back lowering you down! If it turns out we came out here for nothing, I am so going to make Dungeon Master pay my chiropractic bills."

"There are no chiropractors in the Realm, Eric.” Hank shielded his eyes with his hand, scanning the lake for any sign of the item they'd come for.

"There was that guy last week who offered to crack my back for me!"

"You were flirting with his girlfriend! I don't think he meant it in a nice way!" His attention was only half on the banter, though. The clouds to the west were starting to clear. Three of the nameless suns, Hank could see, were touching the horizon-- the fourth was just a fraction of an inch above, and sliding swiftly downwards. He glanced away quickly, blinking away the blobs of light in his vision, and as he did so he caught a flash out towards the middle of the lake. 

Before Hank could say anything, Eric said, new urgency in his voice, "I think I see it! Towards the middle there!" He was pointing at the same place where Hank had seen the flash, at least a hundred feet away.

It had been bitterly cold the entire time they'd been in this area, and the people in the village five miles back had said the weather had been equally miserable for years now. The ice should be plenty thick at this point, enough at least to hold his weight. Carefully, Hank set one foot out on the ice, ready to leap back to the shore if it started to break. It held under him.

Eric, watching from above, started predictably to protest. "Wait! Hank, what are you doing? I thought we were going to wait until the others got here!" 

"We don't have time," Hank called, testing each new step before he put his full weight on it. He was ten feet from the shore now, too far to leap back if it broke-- but Eric's rope was still tied around his waist, and if it had been any of the others Hank might have worried, but the Cavalier was strong enough from months of running around in thirty pounds of steel armor to pull him back, even if Hank did get a good dunking first. "Do you see them anywhere nearby?"

Eric was silent, which was answer enough for Hank. 

"The suns will only be touching the horizon for a few minutes at most," Hank continued, pushing down his own worry about why the others hadn't shown. He and Eric had left a note with the innkeeper nearly an hour ago, after they'd figured out that Dungeon Master's riddle had been pointing towards this lake; they should have been here by now. "If we don't get the Vial of Frozen Sunlight before then, we'll lose our chance at getting home!"

It had been a multi-part riddle: that in the land of ice, at the meeting point of earth, sky, sun and water, the true light of the Realm would be revealed, which if obtained would light the way home. "Or," Dungeon Master had said, eyes twinkling, "through hardship, merely to new and greater understanding of each other. Beware, however, those who claim to be friends while hiding their true faces." Which was your typically cryptic Dungeon Master for you. Personally, Hank was hoping for the first outcome, rather than the latter. "Hardship" didn't sound like much fun.

The 'land of ice' part had been easy enough; to the north, they had been informed, was a village where winter persisted year-round, covering the many nearby lakes in a thick sheet of ice. At the village they'd learned of a local legend that said that every hundred years, all the suns would be in perfect alignment and would set together (the meeting of earth, sun and sky that Dungeon Master's riddle had spoken of); and during this alignment, something called the Vial of Frozen Sunlight would appear (the true light of the Realm). Conveniently, the celestial conjunction was predicted to happen less than forty-eight hours after they'd arrived in the village. The only problem had been finding out where, precisely, the Vial would appear. No one in the village had been alive the last time the conjunction had occurred, and all that had been passed down was that it had happened on a lake somewhere nearby. Every villager had had their own theory about which lake, of course. After a very frustrating day spent trying to figure out the correct location, they'd decided to split up into three groups and canvass the outlying areas, in the vain hope that they'd run across the location by accident. 

Eric had been in a worse mood than usual lately— his snark had had an uncharacteristic edge to it, and he'd managed to systematically piss off pretty much everyone else in the group. To keep the others from lynching him, Hank had volunteered to pair up with him during the search— a decision he was currently regretting. Presto could have magicked something to get them across the ice to the Vial; Diana, Sheila or Bobby would have been able to safely transit the ice without fear of it breaking. But Hank? Hank was stuck creeping out onto the ice, all because he weighed slightly, slightly less than Eric. 

"Yeah, well-- don't expect me to pull you out if you fall in!" Eric said. Hank could hear him continuing to grumble to himself as the rope played out. Hank rolled his eyes, exasperated. 

Why exactly Eric had been in such a bad mood was anybody's guess. It had started when they'd left the city of Zorm. Zorm had actually been the first city they'd run across after arriving in the Realm; the people there had been very kind to six kids unexpectedly thrown into another world, and had helped get them properly equipped for their travels. It'd been good to see them again. Eric had seemed fine for most of their stay, even content-- especially with actual beds to sleep in, and actual hot baths-- but the day before they'd left, his mood had abruptly soured. Nothing anyone said since had been able to pry the reason out of him. Diana had tried to talk to him about it, and he'd nearly bitten her head off— the reason Eric and Diana were not currently speaking. 

Hank had decided the better part of valor was to just ignore whatever the issue was until it became an actual problem or it went away, whichever came first. And despite Eric's words, the rope stayed taut behind Hank, as Eric reeled it steadily out. But that was Eric all over, really. Hank had no doubt Eric would rescue him if it became necessary.

As if it had been listening to his thoughts, the ice made an ominous creaking noise under Hank's feet, and he swallowed, stilling-- but it held, and after a few seconds he continued on. He was getting closer— the light was resolving against the background into what looked like a clear pillar of ice projecting from the lake below through the thick ice five feet into the open air. At the top was the light that Hank had spotted. In cheery contrast to the looming gray clouds overhead, it glowed a pale yellow, and sent twilight shadows flickering before it. Hank felt warmer just looking at it. Or-- was it actually giving off heat?

Hank slid forward another step. Snow on the surface of the ice gave him sorely needed traction as his boots threatened to slip from underneath him. He was starting to wish he'd gone on his hands and knees, to spread out his weight better-- but there was no time. He glanced up worriedly at the horizon. The first sun was just a bare arc of light against the edge of the earth, and as he watched it dipped even lower. He was still thirty feet from the Vial. Ignoring his fear, he quickened his pace. 

"Hank—" Eric said, a reflexive protest, and then fell silent. Hank ignored him. Twenty feet. Ten feet. Five. He was reaching out. His fingertips just brushed the Vial, and in response it glowed brighter, welcoming, a wash of sunlight warmth against his face. Hank took another step forward, the way home within his reach—

—and the ice broke. 

***

"There we go," Eric said, pulling the thick cloak tighter around Hank with a disgruntled frown on his face. "It's not much, but when do we ever have everything we need?" He set his hands on his hips and stared down at his handiwork.

Hank could do no more than shiver, teeth clenched to keep them from chattering. 

"Of course, if you'd just listened to me when I'd said this was just another wild goose chase, we wouldn't be here in the first place, now would we? Freaking Dungeon Master— fetch the sunlight, because that makes so much sense! And of course he doesn't tell us it's in the middle of a lake, in winter—"

Hank closed his eyes against the familiar background noise of Eric complaining and tried to think warm thoughts. His hair was dripping ice melt down the back of his neck, he was rolled up in Eric's cloak like a burrito, and he couldn't feel his nose. Overall, this was not one of his finest moments. 

And he still couldn't stop shivering.

"--and what on earth you were thinking, oh fearless leader, going out onto the ice like that when it was clearly too weak to support you, I'll never know--" Eric broke off abruptly, glaring down at the Ranger. "Are you even listening?"

"N-not r-r-really," Hank chattered. He'd long ago learned the necessary survival skill of tuning Eric out. 

Eric sighed, deflating. "That cloak helping at all?" 

"N-not r-r-really," Hank repeated. Although the air inside the cave wasn't nearly as cold as outside in the wind and snow, it was all relative-- forty degrees or negative forty, it didn't really matter when you were sopping wet, and a cloak wasn't going to cut it. Hank was really wishing he'd picked Presto and his Hat of Many Things for his companion instead-- Hank could really go for a parka and a pile of emergency blankets right now.

There was a derisive sigh, and a metallic click, and Hank opened his eyes (though he couldn't remember closing them) to see Eric flicking open the catches along the side of his breastplate with a disgruntled expression on his face. He set it down in a corner next to where Hank's discarded clothes— including his own cloak— were making a puddle on the floor, and Hank watched, bemused, as the Cavalier started on his chain mail and the rest of his armor. Soon he was standing there in the shorts and t-shirt he wore under his armor, cape wrapped around his shoulders and starting to shiver himself. He nudged Hank with one foot. 

"Scoot," he said. 

Hank gave him a Look. 

Eric rolled his eyes, the back of his neck flushing red. "What? Body heat helps," he said. "I saw it in a movie!"

"I'm f-fine," Hank said, clutching the edge of the cloak closer. The last thing he wanted was for Shei-- for the others to find him and Eric wrapped up together like a pair of newlyweds! And besides, he was feeling better-- he wasn't shivering nearly so much, now, and...

Eric kicked him in the side, not really all that gently. Hank blinked his eyes open again. 

"The other thing I learned from that movie," Eric declared, hands on his hips, "was that it's a _bad sign_ when you stop shivering! So, scoot!"

It was just easier not to argue when Eric got like this. And he was still freezing. Giving in, Hank rolled to one side to free the edge of the cloak. 

Eric crawled in, tucking the edges of the cloak around them both and then draping his cape on top. The bare skin of Eric's shoulder felt blazingly warm where it brushed against his, though Eric was shivering too. 

Eric squirmed around so his back was pressed up against Hank's, and they laid there awkwardly, staring at the rock walls. Hank concentrated on keeping his teeth from chattering, and Eric muttered sullen imprecations against the weather and the situation under his breath. Hank was so used to that by this point that it was as good as a lullaby.

And the extra heat was helping. Hank found himself starting to relax, though his hair was still dripping water into his eyes and the shivers had yet to abate. His shoulders knocked against Eric's in time with his heartbeat.

The Cavalier let out an annoyed huff, and then squirmed around until he'd managed to gather up one fold of the cloak and tuck it over both their heads. "You lose 90% of your body heat through your head," he said, words muffled by the cloth. 

Hank grinned into the darkness. "Movie?" 

"Movie." Eric hunched his shoulders in more tightly, and went blessedly quiet.

The darkness and the quiet conspired with the growing warmth, and between one blink and the next, Hank was fast asleep. 

***

He woke to darkness and the smell of smoke. There was something wrapped tightly around his arms and legs, and he trashed instinctively, hand reaching blindly for his bow. He was trapped!

"Whoa!" he heard Eric exclaim, and footsteps approached at a rapid pace. "Hey, hold still a second," and then a hand was pulling at his shoulder, propping him up and untangling him from what Hank now realized was the cloak he'd gone to sleep in. He was too tired to feel more than a vague sense of embarrassment.

Hank coughed, feeling congestion catch in his chest as Eric crouched down and tucked the newly released cloak back around Hank's shoulders. Hank grabbed the edges and pulled them in tighter, shivering. "Thanks," he said. His head felt like it was stuffed with cotton, but even through the fuzziness he couldn't shake the feeling that he was missing something. "Where's my bow?"

Eric rocked back on his heels. Hank noted he hadn't bothered to put his armor back on, although his tabard had evidently dried out, because he'd pulled that over his underthings. He looked distinctly odd like that, pale arms and legs sticking out. He nodded towards the front of the cave. "Over there. I used it to start a fire."

Hank twisted his head to see, only then consciously registering the sensation of heat against his right side, and the way light flickered on the walls. Sure enough, there was a small fire blazing merrily about five feet away, and his bow was propped against the wall next to it. Early morning sunlight sparkled off a fresh drift of snow blown a few feet into the cave mouth. They must have slept the night through. 

"Where'd you get the firewood?" 

"There's a bunch of driftwood washed up on the beach," Eric said. "Looks like a shipwreck, or something." 

"Too bad we didn't notice last night." 

Eric shrugged. "Yeah, well, it was dark," he said, shortly. "Anyways, how're you feeling?" 

"Fine," Hank replied automatically. 

The look Eric gave him in response spoke volumes. 

"...Like I got run over by an eighteen wheeler," Hank amended. His joints were stiffer than an old man's, his head was aching fiercely, and he was so congested it felt like he was breathing underwater. "Warmer, though." He sniffled loudly.

"With our luck, you probably caught the plague when you fell in there," Eric grumbled. "You'll fall ill, we'll end up having to go on a great journey to find the cure, and then--"

"I don't think you can catch the plague from a lake," Hank interrupted. "Heck, does the Realm even _have_ the plague?" They'd run into plenty of sicknesses here, but they'd mostly been magically induced. Regular diseases didn't seem to be as much of a thing.

Eric rolled his eyes. "A cold, then. The flu. Whatever. Wasn't Bobby complaining he was coming down with something a few days ago?"

"I'm not sick, I'm just--" Something tickled the back of his throat as he spoke and he coughed again, struggling to catch his breath. His lungs felt distinctly abraded; had he breathed in water when he'd fallen into the lake? His memories of the moments after the ice had broken were weird, fragmented— he remembered coughing desperately on the beach as Eric had pounded on his back, but not how he'd gotten out of the lake, or for that matter, how he'd gotten into this cave. And for that matter, how had Eric gotten down that cliff?

Unaware of what Hank was thinking, Eric frowned, and in an uncharacteristic display of concern, leaned forward to rest the back of his hand on Hank's forehead. Hank flinched backwards instinctively, regretting the motion before it was even completed. Faint hurt flickered over Eric's face-- there and then gone, replaced by gloating as he registered what his brief touch had told him. 

"Fever," he announced, triumphantly. The 'I told you so' was clear in his voice. 

Hank pressed both hands to his eyes, trying to banish the fuzziness therein. He wanted to rewind the conversation back to that look of hurt and explain he hadn't meant it, it had just been instinct, but it was too late and the words weren't coming. He sighed instead. "Sorry?" he offered. 

Eric's grin slid off his face at the easy victory, and he looked away. He shrugged. "Well, there's no chicken soup, but we do have water," he offered, clambering stiffly to his feet.

"We do?" Hank asked, wrinkling his forehead. The last he'd checked, his pack-- which had contained the majority of their water and food-- had been left back at the inn with the rest of their gear. They'd elected to travel light, needing to travel quickly to check as many of the lakes as possible. It had only been luck that at the last minute he and Eric had run across the little old woman who'd actually been alive during the last celestial conjunction and could point them to the correct location. 

Eric waved a hand at the snow piling up outside the cave entrance. "See? Plenty."

Hank shivered anew at the thought of having to eat the freezing cold snow. "No chance we can melt it first, is there?" he asked.

Eric snorted. "Do I look like I carry a stove in my pocket?" But he waved in the direction of the fire. "Believe it or not, I already thought of that. Just have to add snow."

Hank turned his head to look more closely at the fire, and realized there was a strange tripod-like contraption set up over the fire. Eric had transformed his shield into a sort of pot, balancing it on top of his leg and wrist bracers so it wasn't sitting directly in the fire. It was ungainly, but it would probably work... if it didn't fall over first. 

"...Somehow I don't think this is quite what Dungeon Master had in mind when he gave you that," Hank quipped, looking at the wobbly construction.

"Oh, Dungeon Master can go jump in a lake," Eric said, as he pulled on his gloves and went to the cave mouth. "Literally, if at all possible. Maybe he'll like it more than we did." He packed a handful of snow together with quick, jerky motions. "Where is he, anyway? Shouldn't he be around to gloat now that we've missed yet another opportunity to get home?" 

Hank pulled the blanket tighter. "He doesn't _gloat,"_ he protested, as Eric came dashing back in, quickly dumping his double handful of snow into the shield and then going back for another. 

"Fine. Then shouldn't he be back to tell us that hey, he's sorry we failed for the umpteen-billionth time, but he just happens to know of this other portal that could maybe, possibly send us home if only we can actually solve his riddles in time for once?" The second handful of snow went into the shield, and Eric paused briefly, warming his hands over the fire. There were goosebumps running up and down his bare arms.

Hank coughed again, knowing he didn't have the energy to win this argument. "Sorry," he offered again, leaning back against the rock wall and pressing a hand to his head, which was swimming; even the little effort of sitting up and talking had wiped him out. "I tried to get the Vial, but--"

"That's not what I—" Eric stopped, teeth clicking together, focusing intently on his hands still stretched out over the fire. Hank could see the edge of a grimace playing along the side of his mouth. "Yeah, well, whatever. It wasn't your fault," he said, turning back to the cave mouth. "You did kind of fall into the lake. I think you can be excused." He leaned down to grab more snow, and his next muttered words were clearly not meant to be heard. "Anyways, what's one more missed opportunity?"

Hank flinched, and closed his eyes. Eric had a point, after all.

***

Hank jerked as a hand came down on his arm and shook it. He opened his eyes to see the familiar cave walls. Evidently he'd fallen asleep again, although the fire seemed to be at nearly the same level it had been before-- he couldn't have been out for more than a few minutes at the most.

Eric was crouching in front of him, holding his shield, which was over half full of water warm enough to send tendrils of steam into the air. 

"C'mon, you should drink something," Eric said. 

"You'd think I got enough water in the lake," Hank muttered, but levered himself forward. Now that he thought about it, he was thirsty. And hungry, but there was nothing to be done about that. He stared blearily around, looking for some sort of implement to get the water from the shield and into his mouth.

"Oh, for-- you're going to have to use your hands, we don't have any cups," Eric said, exasperated. 

Hank grimaced, but pulled one hand out from underneath his blanket and dipped it into the water. His hand was trembling so badly that more than half of the handful of water splashed out before it made it to his mouth. 

Seeing this, Eric frowned. "I thought you said you were feeling warmer?"

"Compared to earlier? Yes," Hank said, and concentrated on keeping his hand steady as he dipped it back into the water. This time he managed to transport the majority of it safely, and the water left a welcome trail of warmth down his throat and into his stomach. "In the grand scheme of things? A vacation to the Sahara Desert is sounding pretty good right about now." 

Eric rubbed his hands briskly up and down his arms. "You and me both," he said. His lips, Hank noted, were tinged an unhealthy shade of blue, and fine tremors were running across his body. Without his armor on, his arms and legs were bare and exposed to the elements; even with the fire burning, that couldn't be comfortable. 

Hank struggled with himself and his embarrassment for a moment. But Eric was a friend, no matter how irritating he could be, and he'd do the same for him. Had done the same for him. Hank sighed, and pulled the cloak away from his left side. Cold air washed across his heated skin, making him shiver violently. "C'mon," he said, through chattering teeth. "Body heat helps, remember?"

Eric hesitated, but it was hard to argue when they'd done something similar not hours before, and by this point his pride had been beaten down by the relentless cold. He grimaced, closing the distance between them. "Might as well put that fever of yours to good use," he said, as he sat and pulled the cloak around them both. He was careful not to let them touch any more than was necessary. 

Hank leaned forward and scooping out another handful of water, then nudged Eric with his elbow. "You too," he said. 

"Yeah, alright," Eric said, dipping his hand in.

***

Hank fell asleep between one breath and the next, and when he woke up again, the shadows stretched long from the cave mouth, and the fire was significantly lower. He stared at it muzzily, trying to decide if he should get up and add some more wood, but his limbs were heavy and unresponsive, and thoughts refused to transmute themselves into action. He was just about to drift off back to sleep when Eric shifted next to him, stifling a series of heavy sneezes. 

That was bad, although half asleep, he couldn't quite remember why.

Then Eric moved again, squirming out of the blankets and letting in a blast of cold air. Hank made a noise of protest somewhere in his throat, and Eric leaned down, quickly tucking the cloak back around his shoulders. "Sorry," he muttered. His voice was hoarse. Hank watched him pad towards the fire and add a few sticks, then go over to stand by the cave mouth. Though he started shivering almost immediately, he stayed there for several minutes, staring intently out at the snow.

"Anything?" Hank asked-- but his breath caught in his throat, and he missed Eric's answer in the sound of his own coughing. He struggled to free his arms from the blankets, propping himself up on his elbows as he leaned forward, almost retching with the force of it. His cough had a wet, ragged edge to it that he didn't like. 

"Geez, Hank," Eric said, and eased him upright. The change in position helped; he gave a few last ragged coughs, and trailed off into heavy breathing. 

"You good?" Eric asked. Hank nodded, and Eric let go, making sure he was propped up against the wall first. Hank leaned his head back and waited for his breathing to even out. 

"No, I didn't see anything," Eric finally answered Hank's question. "No lights, no anything, and it's getting dark out." 

Hank's head swam, but— if it was getting dark, they'd been here nearly a day already. "They should be looking for us by now," he said, grasping onto the thought. "Sheila, Diana-- someone." 

"Yeah." Eric's face was pinched. "If they know where we are."

"What?" The thought took a second to fully process, and then Hank forced himself straighter, the wall at his back keeping him upright. 

"I told you I didn't like the way that innkeeper was looking at us," Eric said, darkly. He stood and went over the stand in front of the fire, warming his hands over the flames.

Hank frowned, thinking back. "He _was_ acting kind of weird," he said after a moment. "But I don't think it was towards us— it was towards Sheila and Diana. He kept staring at them…" Hank closed his eyes, recalling the almost avaricious gleam in the man's eyes as he'd seen the group walk into the inn that first night. "You don't think he was trying to get us out of the way, so he could go for them?" It wouldn't be the first time someone had thought Sheila and Diana were up for grabs, traveling as they did with men they weren't married to. "But why would that have stopped them looking for us? Sheila and Diana could take him out, easy." And that wasn't even taking into account Presto and Bobby, who'd been with them when the group had split up to look for the Vial's location amongst the hundreds of lakes, large and small, that surrounded the village. 

"Oh, sure," Eric said. He picked up a stick and poked glumly at the fire with it, sending a shower of sparks into the air. "But he doesn't need to have done anything to _them_ to stop them from looking for us. He just needed to tear up the note we left."

Hank's head hit the wall behind him with a thunk, and he stared blindly up at the ceiling. "Ah, crap."

"Yeah." 

There was silence in the little cave for a minute, as Hank's feverish brain worked slowly through the implications of that. Eric collected driftwood from the little pile in the corner and worked to build up their fire again, filling the cave with flickering light and the smell of smoke. 

"They're not coming for us, are they," Hank said finally. 

"Nope," Eric said, popping the 'p'. 

"And we don't have any supplies," Hank said. "No food, no real blankets…" He sighed, running a hand through his hair, which had dried stiff and sticking up. "At least we have firewood?" he tried.

Eric gestured at the small pile of sticks and branches in the corner. "Yeah, about that…" 

Hank's heart sank even further. "Oh, you have got to be kidding me." 

Eric grimaced. "I went out and looked again while you were asleep earlier, but there's only so much beach to search," he said. "I did see what looked like some frozen a little ways out onto the ice. I could try to get that…"

"No," Hank said, immediately. "We can't afford to have you fall into the water, too. I… don't think I could pull you out," he admitted. His muscles felt like rubber bands that someone had stretched too far; he wasn't sure he could even stand right now, much less rescue someone from a frozen lake. 

Eric nodded, looking relieved. "So what do we do?" he asked. Gone was the arrogant, derisive tone of the last week; he just sounded exhausted. 

_Your guess is as good as mine,_ Hank wanted to snap, but he bit back the words, knowing they wouldn't help. He looked again at the fire and the pile of wood next to it, calculating. "Wait for the morning," he said more confidently than he felt. "We should have enough firewood, and it'll be easier to figure out what to do when it's light out. And maybe the others will find us in the meantime…" 

"Right." Eric put the full weight of his skepticism behind that word, but he didn't argue, and at this point Hank would take what he could get. 

Eric picked up a pile of cloth from the ground by the fire and tossed it at Hank. "Here, you can probably put those on now," he said. "They should be dry." 

Hank untangled the pile to reveal the rest of his clothes, stiff from how they'd dried, but still warm from the heat of the fire. Gingerly, he pulled them on, draping the second cloak on top, and sighed from relief as the heat seeped into his bones. Soon his eyes were slipping closed again. 

Eric fiddled around with the fire for a minute, setting it up to burn a little lower during the night, then meandered his way back over to where Hank was curled up. 

Wordlessly, Hank lifted an edge of the cloaks to let him in. 

***

Hank woke before Eric this time. He lay there in the faint light of dawn, listening to the Cavalier's soft snores— definitely congested, although the cold didn't seem to be going to his chest like it had with Hank— and wondering what they were supposed to do once it got light enough to see. Even if they were both in perfect health— which they weren't— and wearing proper clothing, which they definitely weren't— last he'd checked, they were still at the bottom of a fifty-foot cliff. 

Even with the rope, getting up again was going to be a challenge. 

He lay there as the gray outside transitioned to the oblique golden light of dawn, ignoring the part of himself that said they needed to get up and moving. Sometime during the night Eric had thrown an arm around Hank's waist, and the warmth was conspiring to send him back to sleep. Well, the longer he waited, he reasoned, the more time the sun would have to warm things up. 

He dozed a little, but finally the sunlight was sparkling directly on the snow outside the cave mouth, sending shafts of light into the cave, and Hank couldn't put it off any longer. He rolled over, and reluctant, nudged Eric in the side with his elbow. 

"Huh— wha?" Eric blearily propped himself up on his elbows, blinking around at the cave. The fire had gone out sometime in the night, and chill had begun to creep back into the cave. 

"We should probably—" Hank paused to cough, feeling his lungs protest— "get going." He had to admit he was feeling a little better after a solid night's sleep. Not a hundred percent by a long shot, but closer than yesterday. And he'd mostly stopped shivering. 

Eric flopped back instead, groaning. "This sucks," he said. "It's fifteen degrees out there. We're gonna freeze to death and the others won't even find our bodies until spring."

Oddly enough, Hank found himself comforted by Eric's grumbling. "Oh c'mon, Eric," Hank said, and threw back the cloak. He flinched as the cold air sucked away the warmth he'd built up, but he steeled himself and supporting himself on the cave wall, managed to lever himself to his feet. "It's only five miles. It'll take an hour and a half, max. Shouldn't be too bad." 

"Says the guy wearing real clothing," Eric said, flicking a finger at his armor where it still lay by the fire. "You try hiking through the snow wearing steel chain mail, see how you like it." He shivered theatrically. 

Hank quirked his eyebrows. He supposed that would explain Eric's reluctance to put the armor back on after that first day. "You were fine on the way here." 

"We were running. I didn't have time to think about it." 

Hank shrugged and leaned down to dip his hands in the water pooled in Eric's shield. It had cooled considerably, but was at least still liquid. His stomach growled, desperate for food. "You could always stay here, if you don't think you'll be able to make it," he said. "Once I reach the village, I can send someone back with a change of clothes…"

"You have got to be kidding me," Eric said. "If anyone's not going to make it, it's you— you can barely stand upright! If I let you go by yourself, you're going to keel over in the snow, and then where will I be?" Shaking his head in exasperation, he threw the cloak off and stood. Instantly goosebumps covered his entire body, but he crossed over to the pile of armor and started determinedly pulling it on. Which was what Hank had been aiming for, so it worked out. 

Eric wasn't wrong, though. Although Hank was feeling better than he had been immediately after being dunked in the lake, he was still shaky and weak, and the cold was cutting right through him. He picked up his cloak and threw it around his shoulders; that helped. The second cloak he tossed to Eric, who caught it and set it aside while he pulled on his boots. 

"Any ideas how we get up the cliff?" Hank asked, once Eric was suited up again. He tried to imagine climbing it— it might have been doable in warmer weather, but Hank's hands were stiff and cold; he doubted he could hold on well enough to make it up. 

"Same way I made it down," Eric said shortly. At Hank's look of surprise, he smirked. "What, you don't think I'm a total idiot, do you?"

***

There was exactly one scraggly tree on the windswept plateau, so twisted it grew more sideways than up, and to it Eric had tied their rope and left it hanging down the cliff. 

"You're sure it'll hold?" Hank tugged on it tentatively, and above, the tree shook worryingly. 

"It was fine on the way down," Eric said, shrugging. "Then again, I was going pretty fast."

Hank had a sudden flash of memory then: of lying on the beach struggling to breathe past the water in his lungs, and seeing Eric slide down the cliff in a barely controlled shower of rocks and dirt, shouting his name, naked fear on his face. Hank could still see the skid marks on the cliff face where Eric's feet had knocked loose a trail in his rush to get down. 

"Thanks," he said abruptly. 

"What?" Eric shot him a startled look. 

Hank nodded at the lake, where broken ice still bobbed in the middle, blown by the wind. He wondered if the Vial was somewhere down at the bottom of the lake, or if it had returned from whence it had come once the suns had set. "For pulling me out." 

Eric's face was a study in conflict— his pride warring with his embarrassment at getting caught caring. Finally he stuck his nose up in the air and said, haughtily, "Well! Of course I did. The others would cry if I let you drown, and I don't do the whole crying thing." He turned to catch hold of the rope. Hank tucked his hands under his armpits to keep them warm and watched as Eric ascended, smiling a little to himself. 

Eric made it about twenty feet up the cliff face before his metal-shod feet slipped on a loose rock and he came crashing back down.

"Eric!" Hank dropped to his knees next to the Cavalier, who had landed on his back and had his eyes squeezed shut as he gasped in little breaths. Fear clenched in his chest as he imagined all the ways Eric could have injured himself falling from so high. "Eric, are you okay?" 

Eric waved him off, curling onto his side and wheezing. "Got… the wind… knocked out of me," he managed, between breaths. 

Hank rocked back on his heels, relief washing through him. As he watched Eric pant, almost unwillingly, he started to laugh. 

"What," Eric wheezed, opening his eyes to glare fiercely at Hank, "is so," he took another breath, "freaking… funny?" 

Hank pressed the palms of his hands to his eyes, throttling back the laughter by sheer force of will, and trying to ignore the slightly hysterical edge it had developed. "Just… this whole situation," he said. 

Eric's glare managed to wordlessly convey how unimpressed he was at Hank's explanation.

Hank shook his head, trying to find the words to say what he meant. He waved a hand to take in the both of them, the cliff, and the lake. "I mean... look at us, Eric. We're stuck at the bottom of a cliff, we have no supplies whatsoever," he paused for a ragged breath, "we're probably going to freeze to death, and within the past forty-eight hours I have not only managed to fall in a lake in the middle of winter, but make us lose our latest chance at a way home!" He sat down abruptly, tugging his cloak more tightly around his shoulders and shivering as a cold wind blew across his face, ruffling his hair. "And I can't even blame it on Venger this time. This whole screw-up, every bit of it, is on me."

Eric pushed himself upright. He had to lean on his arms, but his breathing was starting to even out. His face was unexpectedly serious. "For the record, I'm pretty sure… this one's on whatever idiot decided putting a bottled up piece of sunlight in the middle of a lake of ice was a good idea," he said. "It must have started melting through as soon as it appeared. We didn't ever have a chance, Hank." 

Hank frowned. "Dungeon Master wouldn't do that—" 

Eric rolled his eyes, and Hank trailed off. It was getting harder and harder to tell himself that, as the months went on. But if they couldn't trust Dungeon Master, then how else were they supposed to get home? Hank firmed his voice. "Dungeon Master wouldn't do that," he repeated. 

Eric broke eye contact. "Whatever. I'm sure you're right." He stood, somewhat shakily, and brushed himself off. "There's one other thing I can tell you, though." 

"What's that?" 

Eric leaned down and pulled off his right boot, throwing it into the dirt at Hank's feet. "We are not," he emphasized this by adding his other boot to the first, "stuck at the bottom of this cliff!"

Then he turned, grabbed the rope, and began ascending again. Without his boots, he was able to find easier purchase, and soon enough he was halfway up the cliff. 

"You're going to get frostbite like that!" Hank called, belatedly. 

"Ask me if I care!" Eric swung his leg over and shoved his toes into a gap between the rocks; dirt tumbled down the cliff, but the support held, and Eric used his arms to haul himself higher on the rope. Soon he'd reached the edge of the cliff and was pulling himself over. 

Hank was, frankly, kind of impressed. 

There was a pause, and then Eric leaned his head back over the edge of the cliff. "Okay, okay, I lied, I do care!" he said, waving his hands. "Throw up my boots, would you?" 

Chuckling, Hank tied the boots to an arrow and sent them arcing up to Eric.

Eric snatched them off the ground and disappeared for a few minutes as he pulled them on. 

As he waited, Hank felt another coughing fit building up. He tried to hold it off, but it refused to be tamped down. Metallic bitterness filled his mouth as he hacked into the curve of his arm, and when he spat onto the ground, it was flecked with red. 

Hank was no doctor, but even he knew that wasn't good. 

Eric reappeared over the edge of the cliff looking much relieved. He didn't seem to have heard Hank's fit. "Okay, grab the rope and start climbing! I'll pull from up here." 

Stifling a last few coughs into his arm, Hank grabbed the rope and did as he was told. 

On a good day, the ascent would have taken five minutes at most. Today, sick and exhausted, it was as much as Hank could do to hang onto the rope and find his next foothold. Eric did most of the work in actually pulling him upwards. Hank was shaking by the time he reached the top and scrambled over the edge, helped by Eric's hand on his belt. Hank collapsed onto his hands and knees in the snow, catching his breath. The snow soaked miserably into his pants, and the wind was much stronger here, slicing like a knife through his cloak. After only a few seconds he was forced to stand just to get out of the wet. He pulled his cloak around him, shivering. Then he pulled the collar of his shirt up over his mouth for good measure. The cold air felt like a razorblade slicing into his lungs. 

Eric had been watching Hank with something approaching concern, but turned away once he'd stood, scanning the horizon. The flat plain they were on turned into a low series of hills a couple miles out, all covered in a recent layer of snow anywhere from twelve inches to several feet deep in the drifts. The flat gray sky stretched out ahead of them, blending in with the snow. It was impossible to tell where the sky ended and the land began. 

"Please tell me you remember how to get back to the village," Eric said quietly. 

Hank squinted again at the horizon. They'd been traveling northwest when they left the village, but they'd had to detour around several areas of rocky terrain… "There," he finally said, pointing off to the left, where one particular hill jutted almost like an old man, hunched over. "It's just beyond that hill." This, at least, he could do.

Eric narrowed his eyes at it. "If you say so," he said doubtfully. He started forward nonetheless, boots crunching in the snow. "Man, if I'd known I was going to get stuck in a place where they still haven't learned the meaning of the word 'map', I'd've actually taken those orienteering classes my old man signed me up for at summer camp last year…"

"Why'd he want you to take that?" Hank didn't know much about Eric's father, except that for all the times Eric had complained about wanting to go home, and all the things he had said he missed about their world, his family had never been one of them. And there was the comment he'd made when they'd stayed the night with Ramoud, about Ramoud being better than his father ever had been. Hank couldn't imagine feeling that way. Ramoud had been great, of course, but not better than his dad. 

Eric shrugged uncomfortably. "Something about being a man. I don't even know. He gets these ideas in his head sometimes…" He gestured, brushing off the thought. "I didn't go, of course. The whole camp was a two week romp in the woods, and 'nature' is really not my thing." His mouth twisted in an ironic grimace, indicating the world around them. "Of course, look how that turned out." 

"Hmm." Hank concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other for a moment as he navigated around a particularly deep drift of snow. "I probably would have enjoyed it," he said, then had to pause as one step sent him up to his knees in the powdery snow. He floundered around and managed to pull himself out, but had to shake the snow out of the top of his boot before he could move on. It had already started to melt, ice water trickling down to dampen his socks. They weren't moving anywhere near as fast as they had on the way out; but then, they'd had adrenaline and full stomachs backing them up. At this rate, there was no way they were making it back to the village in an hour and a half. Three or four hours sounded more likely. 

"My dad and I used to go camping together," Hank continued. "We'd pack the truck up with enough supplies for a week over summer vacation, go out to the mountains. Fish, have a campfire… nobody around for miles. It was pretty great." A wave of homesickness crashed over him, and Hank had to swallow past the lump in his throat. 

"Oh, yeah. Because having to dig your own latrine and sleep on the ground is so awesome," Eric rolled his eyes. "Give me my feather bed any day." There was something false in his tone, though, and when he quickened his pace to pull ahead, Hank knew enough to drop the subject. 

They walked in silence for a while. Hank wasn't sure how far they'd gone; the hill they were aiming towards didn't seem any closer, but when he turned around to check, the lake could no longer be seen. The snow encircled them in all directions, featureless. Eric's bright armor was the only spot of color in the landscape. 

Hank quickened his pace to catch up with Eric. 

Eric didn't look over, focused on the placement of his feet in the snow. He had the cloak clutched around himself in tight fingers; Hank could see fine tremors working through his shoulders. Hank winced. They'd have to see if they could pick him up something more to wear once they got back to the village. Weren't you supposed to have more than one layer under armor? Everyone else they'd met who wore armor in the Realm had, except for Eric. He'd always claimed his armor was perfectly comfortable— comfortable enough to sleep in, as he'd demonstrated on multiple occasions when they'd been on the run— but whoever had made it had apparently not thought to magic it against the effects of the weather.

Hank's head and legs were freezing, but his fever, paradoxically, was helping; as long as he kept his cloak closed against the wind, it trapped in the heat his body was producing and kept his core warm. The exercise helped as well. 

Hank paused to shake off the wet snow that built up on his boots every few steps before it could melt and soak through. He sighed, remembering that this time last week, he'd been safely ensconced in one of Zorm's many taverns, a mug of ale and a plate of warm food before him, listening to their host tell her stories. Helena had traveled far and wide in her youth, before coming back to Zorm to lead their militia for ten years. Even in her retirement she'd stayed active, including putting up poor wayward travelers in her guest house. Her daughter had been there too, telling her own stories of a life spent as a trader, bringing back strange and valuable goods to the village. She'd been very beautiful, a model in miniature of what Helena had looked like in her youth, though Hank hadn't had much of a chance to talk to her-- she'd spent most of her time around Eric. She seemed to think he was funny. 

Lost in his memories, Hank tripped over on a rock hidden under the snow and just barely caught himself before falling. He forced himself to put the thoughts of Zorm away and concentrate on his surroundings. 

The snow stretched all around, muffling all sound, except for whine of the wind and the muted crunch of their boots. They walked, and walked… after another twenty or so minutes of watching Eric shiver and listening to the silence, Hank couldn't take it anymore. 

"Boy, sure is chilly today, isn't it?" 

Eric tilted his head to glare at him disbelievingly. "Are you serious right now?" he said flatly. The words were forced out through a jaw clenched tight to keep his teeth from chattering. "When did you decide to become Mr. Obvious? 'Sure is chilly today'. Why yes, yes it is! What powers of observation you possess!"

Hank huffed a laugh, feeling the air bubble uncomfortably in his lungs. "Sorry. Need a distraction," he admitted. 

"What, from the sheer and utter depressingness of our situation?" Eric sniffled, and rubbed his nose on the back of his hand. "Can't say I blame you. What I wouldn't give right now for to be back in my nice, heated home… get the housekeeper to make a cup of hot chocolate. Maybe even put some of those little marshmallows in them." 

"Apple cider," Hank added. "Sit by the fire with my feet up…" 

"Make s'mores." Eric's stomach growled audibly, and he clutched at it. "Well, that was counterproductive. Now I can't stop thinking about how hungry I am." 

Hank grimaced in agreement; his own stomach was making its emptiness known. 

They went along a few steps in silence, Hank ducking his head into his collar to avoid the biting wind. 

"We'll do that when we get back," Hank said abruptly. "Get everyone together, set up a fire in the fireplace, make hot chocolate and s'mores. Maybe order pizza. It'll be fun. We can use my place." He wasn't sure what his parents would make of him having so many friends over at once, especially two girls, but he was pretty sure he'd be able to convince them. Sheila and Diana could take his room; the rest of them could sleep in the living room. The couch pulled out, didn't it? He bit his lip, feeling a moment of panic; it'd been so long he couldn't actually remember. 

"It was the middle of July when we left," Eric said. And in response to Hank's look, "I'm just saying, it'll be a little warm for a fire." 

"I don't care," Hank said stubbornly. "We'll work something out." 

"Fine." Eric stared down at his boots for the next few steps. "We can use my place. More room." 

Hank looked up, shocked; Eric had never, in all their years of school together, invited any of them over. Not even once. "Your parents won't mind?" 

Eric laughed, humorless. "Probably won't even notice." 

Hank faced forward again, biting down the anger and the words he knew better than to say. Eric was a pain in the ass, but no one should ignore their kid. "Sounds like a plan," he said instead, lightly.

***

Somewhere around mile three, Eric stumbled and went down to his knees. It took him two tries to get back up, the snow sticking everywhere it touched, and finally Hank had to go over and lend a helping hand. Eric's armor was like ice under his hands, instantly wicking away the heat from his skin. 

"T-th-thanks," Eric said, teeth chattering. His skin was pale and bloodless against the dark of his hair, and his lips were tinged an unhealthy shade of blue. He leaned on Hank for a moment longer, then pushed off. 

"Maybe you should take the armor off," Hank suggested. "Leave it here. It's just making things worse. We can always come back for it later." 

It took a moment for the words to register, but the glare Eric turned on him was surprisingly powerful for all that. "And w-what happens if it s-snows between now and then?" he asked, gesturing at the grey clouds looming threateningly overhead. A snowflake drifted down and landed on his outstretched arm, proof of his argument. "We'll never find it again, and no way am I wandering around the Realm in my underwear for the rest of eternity, t-thank you v-v-ery much." 

Hank considered insisting, but Eric had a point. Besides, it was only another couple miles, and then they'd be safe and warm at the inn. 

***

Half a mile later, Hank started coughing and couldn't stop. He leaned weakly against Eric's shoulder, feeling like his lungs were turning inside out. Finally he threw up, the meager contents of his stomach spattering into the snow. 

After that they just kept leaning on each other as they walked. 

***

A mile out, they spotted the first lazy trails of smoke against the sky, just beyond the curve of the hill. Hank staggered to a stop, pulling Eric with him. "See? T-there." He had to clench his teeth to get the words out without chattering too much. 

Eric lifted exhausted brown eyes and blinked slowly. He'd been getting quieter and quieter the further along they got, mechanically putting one foot in front of the other. Hank tried not to worry about how out of it he seemed— it was just the cold; he would be fine once they got back to the village. 

Hank pulled them into motion again, glancing around at their surroundings as he did so. Movement on the top of the hill caught his attention, and he squinted, trying to identify the blur of brown. It was heading in their direction. 

It drew closer, and Hank realized it was a horse— or as close to a horse as the Realm got, anyways, with a few too many legs to be a perfect analogue— and the shape on its back was a rider. Hope flared in his chest, and he raised his arm. Someone must have been keeping watch for them. "Over here!" he called, but his voice was weak from coughing and didn't carry far. He waved as hard as he could instead. 

Two hundred yard, a hundred, fifty… Hank's brow furrowed; the rider wasn't slowing down at all. There was a flash of silver as the rider unhooked something at his side, and Hank was moving without conscious thought; he pushed Eric to one side and he went to the other, and the rider's sword swished over his head with only inches to spare. 

The rider wheeled, shouting; Hank scrambled to free himself from the drift he'd landed in, snow getting down his shirt and the waistband of his pants. Eric had landed face down in the snow and now he pulled himself to his hands and knees, dazed, with snow still stuck to his face. He didn't seem to notice the oncoming rider at all, even as the man readied his sword for another swing. Hank's bow had been knocked out of his hands when he fell, and even as he reached he knew it was too far away to make it. 

"Eric!" Hank shouted, desperate.

Eric turned and brought his shield up just in time. The sword bounced off with a ringing clang, and the rider had to cling to his saddle to avoid being knocked off his mount. He cantered to a halt a few yards away, far enough for Hank to scramble forward. His hand closed around the smooth metal of his bow. Yes!

"Hold it right there," he ordered, turning and notching an arrow at the same time. The energy hummed under his fingertips, casting a gentle warmth against his face; he stood a little straighter, drawing strength from it. 

The rider snarled, and the mount under him shifted, but he held still. A scarf covered his face, obscuring his features. Hank opened his mouth to demand who the man was when movement out of the corner of his eye distracted him. He turned his head, saw nothing but white— and the blow took him at the knees, knocking his legs out from underneath him. 

His finger slipped; the arrow loosed but went wild, flying straight up over the hill to explode harmlessly in midair. Hank went down kicking, but it felt a bit like trying to kick a pillow; he scored at least one hit, heard his attacker grunt as his kick connected, but it didn't stop Hank from landing on his back with his attacker on top. Up close, Hank could tell it was something— someone— dressed all in thick white animal furs, perfect camouflage for the snowy terrain. He must have snuck up on the three of them while Hank and Eric had been distracted by the rider, hoping to take them by surprise. 

This close, Hank couldn't get the room he needed to use his bow; he concentrated on keeping the man's hands away from his throat. Where was Eric? He'd lost track of him somewhere in the fight. 

Exhausted and hurting, Hank was no match for a man who had several inches and nearly forty pounds on him, as well as the benefit of a good night's sleep. The man got a knee onto Hank's chest and an arm across his throat, and Hank could find no purchase on the man's furs. He gasped for air around the constriction, stars blooming across his vision. 

"Stop," he gasped, but the man ignored him. 

Hank heard the crunch of snow as the rider descended from his mount. "Hold him still," the man ordered, as he approached. He had the same accent as the people in the village, though Hank didn't recognize his voice. Hank saw him wave his sword out of the corner of his eye, and his panic ratcheted up, heart hammering in his chest. "I'll take care of him." 

"Wait till he passes out," the man holding Hank down said. His voice was more familiar, though muffled by the furs. "It's impossible to get blood out of this thing—" 

With something that was probably supposed to be a war cry but instead sounded more like a terrified shriek, Eric rose out of the snow behind the rider and rammed into the man's side shield-first. They went tumbling down in a spray of snow, kicking and punching. Hank saw the rider's sword fly off to the side. The rider was stronger, but Eric had his shield, and the metal in his gloves added weight behind his blows. 

Distracted by the fight, the man on top of Hank loosened his grip, and Hank used the opportunity to bring his feet up between them and shove him off. Hank scrambled to his feet, drawing his bow back as he stood and loosing immediately. The arrow wrapped around the man and pinned his arms to his side. He flopped like a fish and cursed vile imprecations at Hank, but the arrow held. 

Hank spun around to see Eric straddling the rider, shield pressed into the man's throat. Blood spattered the snow around them and coated the rider's face where Eric had broken his nose. 

"Eric," Hank called, staggering closer on wobbly legs. "Let me get him." 

Eric looked up at the sound of Hank's voice, chest heaving and a hectic flush on his cheeks that had brought some color to the pallor of his skin. 

"Eric," Hank said again. 

Eric shook his head to clear it and pushed himself to his feet. If in the process he stepped on the man's stomach once or twice, Hank wasn't going to call him on it. 

The man tried to get up; Hank shot him as well. Watching him flail against the constricting arrow with a critical eye, Hank walked over to Eric's side. 

"You alright?" he asked. 

Eric laughed shakily. "Oh, just peachy," he said. He set his shield on the ground and leaned his weight against it, shaking, whether from the adrenaline or from the cold Hank couldn't tell. There was a cut on his cheek bleeding sluggishly, but he looked otherwise unharmed from the fight. "You?"

Hank shrugged, rubbing at his throat, where he was sure he'd have bruises in the morning. Leftover adrenaline was keeping him from feeling the rest of his aches and pains, but he was sure they'd be coming back soon enough. "I'll survive." 

The rider was trying to say something through the scarf and the broken nose. Hank leaned over and tugged down the scarf covering his mouth, revealing a face nearly red with apoplexy.

"I'm going to kill you! I'm going to gut you like a fish and drape your entrails—!" Hastily, Hank replaced the scarf and shoved the folded end of it into his mouth for good measure. The man continued to shout, muffled. 

"Did you recognize him?" he asked Eric. 

Eric frowned, waggling his hand from side to side. "Think I might have seen him around the village," he said. "I don't know who he is, though." 

Hank walked over to the man in the white fur, who had gone silent. He just glared at Hank, eyes shining with hatred, as Hank pulled his hood back. It was the innkeeper. 

"I told you so," Eric said. It would've been smug if he hadn't sounded so tired. Hank rolled his eyes. 

"Didn't your mother ever tell you it's not nice to say 'I told you so?'" he asked. Not waiting for Eric's answer— which he was fairly certain would be 'no'— he kneeled down next to the innkeeper. "Why'd you attack us?" he asked. 

The man attempted to spit at Hank and missed. Hank stood and stepped back. "Okay, I think we're done here," he said. 

"Good," Eric said. 

A few feet away, the horse… thing… stamped its legs against the cold, steam blowing from its nostrils. It hadn't moved from the spot where its rider had dismounted, and its reins hung loosely at its side. It looked fairly tame, and when Hank approached, it just whuffled softly at his outstretched hand. 

"Think it'll let us ride it?" Eric asked. 

Hank shrugged, and carefully gathered up the reigns. "Worth a shot." 

The animal (Hank decided privately to just go on calling it a horse, despite its irregularities) stood patiently as Hank scrambled into the saddle, even when Eric had to step up and help Hank get his leg over the other side. Once up, Hank helped pull Eric to sit behind him. Eric wrapped his arms around Hank's middle to anchor himself. 

"What should we do with those two?" Eric asked, jutting his chin at the men lying tied up in the snow. 

Hank shrugged. "The arrows will last for a while. We can send someone back for them once we get to the village." 

"Might want to take our time, of course. Stop for some food first," Eric mused. "Hot bath. Think they have a sauna in town?" 

Hank laughed, and pressed his heels into the horse's sides to start it moving, leaving the two men behind in the snow. "Sounds good to me." 

***

The horse moved through the snow like it wasn't even there, and soon enough they were approaching the village. The last remnants of Hank's energy were draining away, and he clung stubbornly to the saddle's horn to keep himself upright. At some point during the ride Eric had put his head down on Hank's back; the only reason Hank knew he was still conscious was the arm hooked tightly around his waist. 

Hank directed the horse straight up to the doors of the inn they'd been staying at. His heart beat faster as they approached. He was certain that Sheila and the others could have handled anything that the innkeeper had tried to throw their way, but what if he was wrong? What if something had happened to the others, and that was the real reason they hadn't come looking?

He was just contemplating what to do if it turned out that the entire village had been in on the plot to get rid of them— unlikely, he knew, or they would have sent more than two people after them— when a shutter on the second floor of the inn burst open, and Bobby leaned out so far Hank was afraid he was going to fall. "Hank! Eric! You're okay!!" He dashed away from the window, yelling as he went, "Sheila! Hank's back!"

Hank sagged forward in relief. Eric jerked forward and then caught himself, lifting his head to blink at their surroundings. "'Made it back?" he asked, muzzily. 

"Yeah." 

"Cool." Eric dropped his head back down to rest against the center of Hank's back. Hank could feel his chest rising and falling slowly. Hank was barely hanging on himself. 

Sheila and Bobby appeared at the door of the inn and rushed over to their side. Sheila was pale with relief, and Bobby and Uni were bouncing around excitedly. "Hank! Are you alright?" Sheila asked, clutching at his leg, the only part of him she could reach. Her hand was warm as a brand through his clothing. "And Eric! What happened to you two?"

"Fell in a lake, then got ambushed; you know, the usual," he answered, tackling her second question first. He coughed. "And I think that depends on your definition of 'alright'… Where's Diana and Presto? Are they okay?"

Sheila cocked her head, surprised. "Yes, of course, why wouldn't they be? They're out looking for you— half the village is out looking for you, for that matter; they've been a great help. We just got back ourselves." 

"We've been taking shifts!" Bobby added.

"Let me guess; the innkeeper here was 'helping,' too?" 

Sheila's expression flickered with concealed distaste. "Borits? Yes, he and the blacksmith were keeping watch on Old Man's Hill to the north… oh." Her eyes widened in shock. "You said 'ambushed'— you don't mean them?" 

Hank nodded, exhausted. "Someone should probably go retrieve them— we left them tied up just beyond the hill." He pressed a hand to his chest, willing the ache from where the man had kneeled on his chest to go away. "Or, you know, feel free to leave them out there for a while longer…"

"But why would they— oh, you can tell me later. I'll let Diana know where they are." Sheila held out her arms to help him down. "As soon as we get you both inside and warmed up. You must be freezing!"


	2. Chapter 2

The village didn't have a sauna, but after everything had been explained, the young man that had been left in charge of the inn while the innkeeper was gone had proven more than happy to haul up bathwater for them, heated until steaming hot. A fire roared in the corner of the room. Recalled from where he and Diana had been searching to the south, Presto was recruited to make sure neither he nor Eric fell asleep and drowned as they soaked. Diana, Sheila and Bobby took a set of the pseudo-horses and went out with a contingent of the village elders to fetch back the two attackers.

Satisfied that things were well in hand, Hank scooted down as far as he could in the too-small tub, letting the water soothe away his aches and pains and the lingering chill. His chest still hurt, but the steam seemed to be easing the coughing a little. They'd been fed, too, a quick selection of leftovers from lunch that they'd torn into like starving dogs. The food had been cold but it had still been the best thing Hank had ever tasted.

Eric had tipped his head back against the edge of the tub and was staring at the rafters overhead, eyes lidded and half-asleep. The cut on his cheek had mostly stopped bleeding. It curved just under his eye, and made him look rather rakish. Other miscellaneous cuts and bruises were visible on the bits of him that he hadn't quite managed to fit under the water; red skin on his knees where he'd scraped them, scabbed-over knuckles from punching the blacksmith; a pattern of circles on his upper right shoulder where a blow had cut chain mail into his skin. Hank pressed a hand to the center of his own chest, feeling the deep ache of bruises just starting to turn black and blue, and the matching ring around his neck. They were quite the pair, alright.

Seated on a stool in the corner, Presto was fiddling with his hat, mumbling spells under his breath. Hank wasn't quite sure what he was trying to produce; there was a small pile of objects beside his stool, including a pair of thick woolen mittens, a Cabbage Patch doll, six scarves of various colors and fabrics, and a Cyndi Lauper cassette tape. Hank debated asking, and then decided he didn't care that much. Instead he sank down in the tub, propping his feet up on the end, and let himself fall into a light doze.

Every once in a while someone would come and top up the bath with fresh hot water, but otherwise they were mostly undisturbed.

Some time later, a commotion sounded from the direction of the street. There was shouting, and what sounded like a horse whinnying.

"What the...?" Presto stood up from his stool-- the pile by his side had grown to include a jar of face cream and a tiny, peeping yellow chick-- and threw open the shutters of the window facing the street. A blast of cold air swept into the room; this town hadn't yet learned of the wonderful invention of glass windows. Hank slid out of the tub, moving like an old man, and pulled on a pair of pants to go stand next to the window and see what was going on.

The first things he noticed were Diana and Sheila riding at the head of the group of pseudo-horses. Just behind them, the two men had been tied up (with more prosaic rope instead of Hank's arrows) and were riding thrown over the back of a horse. One of them was shouting something-- his voice was muffled by the back of the horse, so from this distance Hank couldn't tell what he was saying, but Sheila had gone scarlet red with fury and Diana was shouting back, much more audibly. "You're a creep! What idiot in their right mind would think you could win us like-- like we were some kind of trophies?!"

The blacksmith wiggled and slid off the back of the horse, landing on his feet. Still shouting-- something about "uppity wenches"-- he made a break for it, running towards the bakery across the street.

"Think we should help?" Eric asked. Hank glanced to the side, startled; he hadn't realized Eric had joined them. Eric had taken the time to pull on his tunic and cloak, and held it closed tightly in front of him against the breeze from the window. He looked like he was still feeling the chill.

"Nah," Hank said, turning back to watch as Diana and Bobby sprinted after the fleeing blacksmith. "I think they've got it in hand."

"Man, Diana sure can run," Presto said admiringly.

Diana extended her javelin and leapt, using it as a fulcrum to vault herself forward in a perfect arc at the runner's back. He stumbled forward under her blow, faceplanting into the slush, and was struggling to rise when Bobby caught up with him and just plain sat on his back, club tapping pointedly on the ground.

"Hey!" Sheila shouted. Hank turned back to the group of riders to see that the innkeeper had taken advantage of the commotion to push himself into a seated position on the horses's back and nudge it into a gallop, guiding it forward with his knees.

Sheila immediately pressed her horse to follow. Passing by Diana, she reached down and caught Diana's hand, pulling her up behind her on the horse. Together they caught up with the innkeeper, who was having trouble going at any real speed with his hands tied behind his back. Somehow they managed to corral him into a dead-end street off the side of the main road. Sheila and Diana both descended from their horse; Sheila pulled up her hood and disappeared, and Diana spun her javelin menacingly.

Sensing an opening, the innkeeper tried to charge past them back onto the main street. Diana sidestepped the horse and in one graceful motion extended her javelin into the man's stomach as he passed by, knocking him off the horse into the snow.

He made it up to his hands and knees before he seemed to run into some invisible force-- presumably Sheila-- that kept him from rising any further. He struggled for a while, then seemed to realize he wasn't getting anywhere, and with a series of curses that could be heard all the way from the inn, he finally gave up.

Soon enough several of the local constabulary came to collect him and take him off to the village jail, where his partner awaited him.

Sheila pulled back her hood and reappeared. She glanced up at the inn and waved at Hank and the others. Hank flashed her a thumbs up. With a grin, she and Diana went to talk to the village elders.

Eric snorted and shook his head. "Man, I wish we'd've had them with us earlier," he said. He reached out and closed the shutters, clutching his cloak tighter around his shoulders. He eyed Hank, who was still standing there in pants and not much else. "You're not cold?"

Hank shook his head, suppressing a cough into the crook of his elbow.

Eric frowned. "It's freezing in here," he said. Presto nodded in agreement.

Hank shrugged. "I'm closer to the fire," he said, and it was true. The heat from the fireplace was actually bordering on oppressive; he could feel sweat trickling down the back of his neck.

"Not that much closer," Eric said. He narrowed his eyes. "You're still feverish." He sounded almost offended, as if having made it back to the town, all of Hank's problems should have immediately gone away. But things never quite seemed to work that way in the Realm, did they?

Hank sighed. "Probably." He turned and grabbed a nearby chair, sinking down into it, abruptly exhausted. He coughed again, wetly, and then couldn't stop.

Eric's frown deepened. He turned to Presto. "Think you can magic up some cough medicine or something?"

Presto waved a hand at the pile of random objects sitting next to his stool. The chick had wandered over to their discarded plates and was pecking away at the leftover scraps of gruel. "What do you think I've been trying to do?"

"Cure cancer? Find the Holy Grail? How should I know?" Eric snapped, then visibly reined himself in when Presto flinched. He didn't apologize, but his voice was less strident when he said, "Well, keep trying." Hank didn't miss the way Eric's eyes kept flickering over to him, even as he struggled to get a good breath. "I think we'll need it."

***

Things went a little hazy after that. Hank found himself back in his room with no clear recollection of how he'd gotten there. The fire burned in the grate, and the room was stiflingly hot. His chest hurt like someone had kneeled on it-- which was perhaps not the best metaphor, considering that had in fact actually happened, but he couldn't think of anything better-- and his throat felt like it had been rubbed with sandpaper.

Hank curled up under his blanket and tried, mostly futilely, not to cough.

"Here, drink some of this, would you?" Hank blinked open heavy eyes to see Sheila holding out a cup; he recognized the stout woman behind her as the village herbalist. He took the cup and sat up against the wall. The drink's bitterness was not quite masked up with copious amounts of honey, but the steam cleared his sinuses, and it seemed to help a little with his breathing.

Time passed; his fever rose. He tossed and turned, unable to quite get comfortable. Every few minutes another coughing fit would hit him, and he'd be left shaking and weak when it passed.

Sheila was there with him, with water and teas and soups, and for some reason so was Eric, leaning back in a chair by the fire with his feet kicked up on a stool. The room was lit with lamps, though he was sure it had just been daylight; how much time had passed?

Voices, nearby; Hank kept his eyes closed, too tired to find out who it was and what they wanted with him.

"He sounds awful." That was Sheila, voice low; she sounded like she was standing just outside the doorway. "What do you think's wrong with him?"

"It's not just a cold, that's for sure," Diana said.

"You said he swallowed a lot of water, didn't you, Eric?" That was Presto.

"Practically the whole lake," Eric said darkly, tone implying that that had somehow been Hank's fault. Hank scowled to himself, shifting on the bed. There was a pause in the conversation as the others turned to look at him. Someone jabbed an elbow into Eric's side and hissed, "Not so loud!"

Hank let his breathing even out, pretending to be asleep, and soon enough they resumed their conversation.

"Pneumonia then, maybe?" Presto's voice was lower this time.

"Why are you asking me? What do I look like, a doctor?" Eric snapped. He was trying to be quiet, but quiet was not Eric's natural state.

"I don't think anyone would ever mistake you for a doctor, Eric," Diana said.

"What, like you're any better--"

"Do you think Dungeon Master could help?" Sheila put in hastily, cutting off the brewing argument.

"What's the point? He'd just tell us this is 'nature's doing' again, like he did when Bobby got hurt," Eric said bitterly. Hank cracked open one eye to see him lounging against the door with his arms crossed over his chest.

"He's right," Presto said. "And besides, how would we even find Dungeon Master? He could be anywhere."

There was a depressed silence as they acknowledged his point.

"Well, maybe we could--"

Hank curled up on his side and pulled his pillow over his ears. He didn't want to hear anymore.

***

The next couple of days were a miserable blur of, well, misery. Hank spent most of the time sweating and feverish, tossing and turning on his bed trying to find a comfortable position that would both avoid aggravating his bruises and allow him to breathe. Sleeping was difficult and erratic; every time he felt on the verge of real sleep, something would conspire to wake him up-- someone would arrive with water or herbal remedies or food, or he'd start coughing so hard he'd throw up, or the room would be too hot. Every once in a while he'd close his eyes and when he opened them again it would be hours later, dark where it had been light, or light where it had been dark, and the people around him had come or gone.

The others took turns watching over him, Sheila or Diana or Presto, and Eric was there as often as not, though Hank wasn't quite sure why since he wasn't being of much help. Feverishly, Hank hated the attention-- why wouldn't they just leave him alone to be pathetic in peace? He felt compelled to try and pretend he was alright while they were around, and that took precious energy he didn't have. It was a little easier when it was just Eric-- at least with Eric he didn't have to worry so much about putting up a front, since he was less likely than the others to be hurt by the proof that their leader was only human.

Finally, on the third day, there was a quiet knock on Hank's door, which opened before he could respond. Presto slipped through the door, carrying one of the thick stoneware mugs the inn had provided. The village was being good about putting them up and keeping them well supplied-- residual guilt, Hank suspected, because two of their citizens had tried to kill them.

"Hey, Hank," Presto said quietly. "Got something for you." He held out the mug, and Hank pulled himself into more of an upright position, hating everything about his life. His chest hurt, his head was fuzzy, and fever burned under his skin. He took the mug. There was only a little dark liquid at the bottom of the mug, and it didn't smell like any of the herbal remedies he'd been handed so far. He sipped gingerly at it.

The taste was shockingly familiar, an unexpected slice of home, and he jerked his head back to stare at Presto. Presto grinned at him.

"NyQuil? Seriously?" Hank's voice rasped in his throat. On closer look, the liquid in the cup was dark green.

Presto pulled the bottle out of one of his pockets and waved it in demonstration. "The hat finally decided to cooperate," he said, cheerfully. "And that's not all." With a little flourish, he pulled an orange bottle of pills out of his other pocket.

Hank took the bottle, reading the tiny text on the back. "Amoxy--" he squinted, then looked up at Presto. "Antibiotics?"

Presto grinned and made jazz hands. "Ta-da!"

"Very nice, Presto," Hank said, sincerely. Popping one of the pills out of the bottle, he washed it down with the rest of the Nyquil. He grimaced. "God, that stuff is awful." But he tipped his head back and finished it all.

He got a little more rest that night, medicated into a deep sleep, and he dreamed about home.

***

The next day or two were lost in sleeping, sleeping, taking medication, and more sleeping, and by the time Hank woke up on the third day, he was starting to feel somewhat improved. His chest still hurt, and he was still coughing as often as not, but it was no longer the deep painful hacking that had felt like it was tearing him apart.

He opened his eyes and fumbled for the meds and the glass of water on the nightstand, and it was only after taking them that he noticed Eric sitting on the other side of the room, staring into the fire. Eric turned at the movement, and Hank narrowed his eyes at him.

"You're still here. Why are you here?" he asked. Had he been there the entire time? Hank tried to think back, and in fact the only real length of time he could remember Eric not being there was during the night.

Eric shrugged. "This is the warmest room in the whole inn," he said, pulling the cloak he was still wearing around him pointedly. Which was a little odd, now that Hank thought about it; they'd been back four days, he ought to be feeling alright by now.

Hank squinted, examining Eric. Someone had loaned him cotton pants and a long-sleeved tunic in dull green; he looked odd, soft and defenseless, without his armor. His shield was propped up against the far wall, next to Hank's bow. It was hard to tell in the flickering light of the fire, but he thought Eric seemed a little pale. He recalled thinking in the cave that Eric seemed congested, though he'd mostly forgotten it due to the ensuing events. If he listened closely, there was a rasp to Eric's breathing that hadn't been there before.

"You _are_ sick," he accused.

"Sick of the Realm, maybe," Eric groused, crossing his arms across his chest.

"Uh-huh, sure."

Eric scowled, then immediately betrayed himself by coughing.

Hank raised an eyebrow.

Eric sank deeper into his chair. "...I can't seem to get warm," he admitted. He sniffled thickly, and made a face. "Really wish they had kleenex here."

Hank grimaced in agreement. Something tickled his throat, and he spent the next minute coughing his lungs out. When he was done, he leaned back against the wall and sighed, feeling the air in his chest rattle. "So, what, the others exiled you here?"

"Something about germs spreading," Eric grumbled. "You and me, plague victims or whatever. It really is the warmest room in the inn, though." He kicked his feet up on a nearby stool and leaned back in his chair, looking pale and sweaty, though every once in a while he would actually shiver.

Hank settled back in his bed. "There any food around here?" he asked. For the first time in the last few days he could remember, he was actually legitimately hungry, stomach growling.

"They probably have something down in the kitchen, I'll ask," Eric said, and disappeared out the door for a few minutes, clutching his cloak around his shoulders. When he came back he was bearing two plates, piled high with leftovers-- ham, and hot soup, and the thick crusty bread they made around here. Hank fell to with a will, and for several minutes the room was filled only with the sounds of eating.

Finally Hank finished, and he sat back in his bed feeling much more human-- he almost had energy, even. On the other side of the room Eric pushed back his plate-- though Hank noted he'd barely touched his food-- and ran a hand over his face and up through his hair, leaving it all over the place.

Eric noticed his funny look and raised his eyebrows. "What?"

"You need a haircut," Hank said. Which was putting it mildly.

Eric scowled. "Seriously? I just cut it, I swear to god." He made a brief attempt to flatten it down. It was at least vaguely respectable by the time he finished.

"Sheila still has that pair of scissors, I think," Hank said. "She'd probably cut it if you asked."

Eric crossed his arms across his chest and just scowled deeper.

"What?" Hank asked, though he honestly wasn't sure he wanted to know. Still, if there was an issue with Sheila and Eric, he probably at least ought to know.

Eric slumped even further in his chair when he realized Hank wasn't going to let it go. "...I don't think Sheila's speaking to me right now," he admitted.

Hank rolled his eyes so hard he thought they might fall out, utterly exasperated. "Are you serious? What'd you even do this time?" Sheila was _hard_ to anger that badly.

"Nothing." Hank waited for a minute to see if he'd elaborate, but Eric was doing a great impression of a stubborn mule, and Hank was too exhausted to hold out very long. Fine. He'd get it from Sheila later. She'd be happy to complain to him, anyways. Hank sighed, coughing a little, and lay back against his pillow, throwing an arm over his eyes. The light was starting to hurt.

"What is even with you lately?" he asked, not expecting an answer. "You've been being a jerk ever since we left Zorm."

Eric was silent again, but the quality of the silence was different this time. Almost... guilty? Hank rolled over to face him, moving his arm.

Eric had dropped his feet off the stool and was leaning forward with his elbows propped on his knees, staring abstractly into the fire. He was still scowling but it was an unhappy scowl rather than angry.

"Seriously, Eric, out with it already," Hank said, raising up onto his elbow and putting a little bit of command into his voice. "Whatever it is, it can't be all that bad."

Eric rubbed his face, looking away. "You don't want to know, trust me," he said.

Hank frowned. "Eric, if there's a problem, then yes, I do need to know."

Eric shot him a scathing look, and Hank collapsed onto his back, sighing up at the ceiling. The firelight flickered across the criss-crossing wood beams. Someone was clearly very careful to keep it well dusted, for there wasn't a spiderweb in sight. "C'mon, Eric," he said, quieter. "You're my friend, and whatever this is, it's making you miserable. Keeping it to yourself is clearly not helping." He paused, a worry at the back of his mind making itself known. "It wasn't-- nothing happened in Zorm, did it...?"

"What?" Eric's eyes widened and he waved his hands. "No! No, nothing-- nothing happened. Not like that."

"Then what, Eric?"

Eric sighed and rubbed a hand across his face. Then he said, all in a rush, "It's been a year. We've been here a year. Pretty much exactly."

There was a beat of silence as Eric stared at Hank, waiting for his reaction. Hank realized belatedly he should probably have acted shocked, but by then it was too late; Eric was frowning thoughtfully.

"...You don't seem surprised," Eric said.

"That's because I'm not." Hank sighed and leaned back against the wall. The wood was pleasantly cool against the back of his neck; the antibiotics were working, but not quickly, and he still had a fever. "Three hundred and sixty-two days," he said, to the ceiling. "That's how long we've been here, give or take a couple. I'm still not sure how exactly time passed in the Nightwalker's dimension, or in some of the other places we've been."

Eric watched him quietly. "You've been counting?" he asked. "This whole time?"

Hank nodded. Fishing in one of his pockets, he took out a small, battered notebook and tossed it to Eric, who opened it and started flipping through the pages. The first eleven pages were made up of miscellaneous notes, mostly for school, but page twelve was covered in tick marks. So was page thirteen. So were pages fourteen through nineteen. They were fairly well spaced out at first, when he'd thought they'd be back home soon, but as the pages went on they got smaller and smaller as he'd realized he might conceivably run out of paper.

"Where'd you get this?" Eric asked, weighing the notebook in his hand as if he could feel the weight of all the time and energy Hank had spent on it, on marking their time. "Most of our stuff disappeared when we came here."

"Why did Presto's glasses come with him? Why did your wallet?" Hank shrugged, then took a moment to cough into his elbow. "I had it in my pocket."

Eric snapped the notebook shut and tossed it back to Hank, who just barely managed to catch it out of the air. "I tried counting in my head at first. Lost track after the first month or so," Eric confessed.

Hank nodded. "I think everyone did lost track after a while." He tilted his head. "So what was it about Zorm that tipped you off?"

Eric sighed. "The Festival of Corin," he said.

Hank blinked, thinking back. "Wasn't that... the festival with the guy who dresses up like an orc and everyone takes turns pretending to beat him?" It was a yearly festival, and had happened the day they left Zorm the first time. It had been somewhat baffling at the time-- now, though, Hank could see where there would be satisfaction in it, especially for a group of people who were regularly menaced by Venger.

"Yeah, that."

"But that didn't happen while we were there this time," Hank said. 

Eric shook his head. "No, but Helena's daughter buttonholed me after dinner one evening to tell me all about how it was coming up in a couple of weeks and that we should definitely stay for it." He colored faintly. "Apparently, er, there's a tradition that goes along with it of spending the night with the person you're interested in..."

Hank blinked. "And you said no??" Helena's daughter was very good looking, albeit nearly twenty years older than them.

Eric blushed even harder. "She said she wanted to settle down and have kids! I'm only seventeen, I don't want kids!"

There was something missing from that statement.  Hank frowned. "But you do want to settle down?"

"I--" Eric hadn't expected the question, and in his shock his expression was suddenly raw and open and deeply unhappy. He had to look away and clear his throat to continue. "No? Not really."

"But?" Hank asked.

"But I'm tired," Eric said, voice cracking. "I'm tired of fighting Venger, tired of always having to scrabble for food and a place to sleep, tired of trying to find a way home just to have it snatched out of our hands at the last minute. And the worst part of it is--" he paused, and rubbed his face in his hands, "--I can't seem to remember why we keep trying."

He came to a halt, mouth parted, seemingly shocked at the bitterness that had just come out of his own mouth. His fingers were clenched in his cloak, pulling it tightly around him, and he was shivering.

And here, Hank realized, was the real reason Eric had been so miserable ever since they'd left Zorm. Not because he'd realized it had been a year since they'd been in the Realm, not really-- but because he'd been tempted by Helena's daughter's offer. Tempted to take it, and stay.  
   
Eric's eyes were fixed on Hank's, waiting for Hank to respond. He looked like he expected Hank to lash out, or maybe to give a lecture about how they would certainly make it home, and that Eric's fears were foolish.

Instead, Hank merely pulled out his notebook again and opened it to page seventeen. He held it out and pointed to a series of tick marks that stretched across the bottom line, twenty of them. "That," he said, "is the other reason I'm not a hundred percent sure about the exact number of days we've been here."

Eric studied the marks, but they were indistinguishable from any others on the page. "I don't get it," he said dubiously, looking back up at Hank.

"Remember when we went to the Dragon's Graveyard to defeat Venger?" Hank asked. It still hurt to bring it up, mingled regret for having put the others into that position in the first place, and, at the back of his mind, the creeping suspicion that he'd made a mistake, that he should have had done with Venger once and for all. It wasn't something he really believed, but it was there all the same. "Afterwards, I kind of..." gave up, really, "stopped caring, I guess. Stopped counting, stopped putting effort into finding a way home. I figured I'd just blown our best chance at getting home and we'd be stuck here for the rest of eternity. I was kind of a mess. I ended up having to write those in afterwards, and it's really just an estimate."

Eric ran his thumb over the pencil marks, still frowning, but less like he was still unhappy and more like he was thinking. "I didn't realize," he said finally. "You never said anything."

"I was pretty careful not to," Hank said. "Bobby and the others-- you were all so unhappy about losing our way home at the glacier, I guess I didn't want to show how... pointless I felt like it was at the time."

Eric handed the notebook back. "How did you get over it?" he asked, quietly.

Hank shrugged. "I had to, so I did?" he said. At Eric's glare, he said quickly, "I'm not being flip-- that's really what it was. Everyone else wanted to go home, and even if time does run differently between the Realm and home, my parents are going to start wondering where I am eventually.  
I couldn't let you guys down. I couldn't let my parents down. So I made myself start caring again, and eventually it stuck." He smiled a little, trying to lighten the mood. "We have things to go back to, Eric-- even if it does mean we have to attend school again."

"You do," Eric said quietly, ignoring Hank's-- admittedly poor-- attempt at humor, crossing his arms over his chest and refusing to meet Hank's eyes. "You've all got parents that give a shit, you've got families, friends..." He shrugged, looked up, met Hank's eyes and saw the horrified sympathy there, and quickly looked away. "My parents probably wouldn't care if I never came back." He smiled without humor. "Maybe the housekeeper would, but then again, she'd probably be just as happy there was one less person to clean up after."

"Eric--" Hank started, and Eric threw up a hand, cutting him off.

"Don't try and tell me I must be wrong," he said, anger and frustration all tangled up in his voice. "It's been true for so long there's no reason to even argue about it anymore. It's just a fact."

"I thought you said your dad wanted you to go to that camp? That doesn't sound like someone who wouldn't care," Hank asked, not arguing, just trying to understand.

Eric's mouth twisted. "I guess I should say, he told his secretary he wanted me out of his hair for the summer because he was going to Germany for business for two months and he didn't have time to find me a babysitter, so a camp would do. I think the secretary must have picked the specific camp."

Hank sat back, feeling sick to his stomach. He'd been aware that Eric's home life wasn't the best, just based on things he'd said-- and the things he hadn't said-- but he hadn't realized it was that bad. "I'm sorry, Eric," he said. "That-- sucks." Which was putting it mildly, but he couldn't think of anything else adequate to say.

"Whatever." Eric waved his hand sharply, dismissing Hank's sympathy. "It's just life. I don't usually care, it's just... the Realm, I guess, and always having to find a way home."

Hank was silent for a minute, trying to regroup. He breathed in, coughing on the exhale, then waited until Eric met his eyes. "It's not true, though," he said.

"Yes, it is, I said--" Eric snapped, and Hank interrupted, "Not that. I can't argue with you about your family when I don't even know them."

Eric crossed his arms over his chest defensively. "What, then?"

"It's not true that you don't have anything to go back to," Hank said.

"Oh? What is it, then?" Eric snapped. "Tell me, oh great master, what exactly it is I have to go home for? Because I sure as hell can't think of anything."

"Us," Hank said.

Eric frowned, searching for words. "That... doesn't make any sense," he pointed out, as if Hank were slow. "What are you, trying to imitate Dungeon Master? You guys are here, not home."

Hank resisted the strong urge to roll his eyes, instead focusing on Eric so he would know for certain that Hank meant what he was saying. "But we _will_ get home," he said, with all the force he could muster. "I don't know when that will be, I don't know how-- but it's going to happen. And when that does happen, we'll be your reason to go home, because we'll be there. And Eric? _We are not leaving you behind."_

Eric was shocked into stillness, mouth left hanging half open as he tried and failed to find a response. Finally, "So what you're saying," he said slowly, working through the logic, "is that I should keep trying to get home because when you guys find a way home, you will be my reason to go home, because you will, in fact, be home." He paused again, and then finally said quite sincerely, "That is the most backward reasoning I've ever heard, and Hank, that is saying something."

Hank frowned; it had made more sense in his head. "It's possible I'm still a little feverish," he said, and shrugged. "I guess what I'm saying is, I don't want you giving up just because you think there's nothing waiting for you at home. Because there will be." He stretched out and nudged Eric with his foot. "Heck, you can come over to my house, if you want. Borrow my parents. I'm sure my mom will be more than happy to shower you with all the maternal affection you could want." She'd have to get used to Eric's unique personality first, admittedly, but Hank was pretty sure that once she realized how badly in need of parental affection Eric was, there would be no stopping her. "And you could come camping with my dad and me."

Eric made a face. "Eurgh, camping? After all this?" he shuddered. "Don't you have it out of your system yet?"

Hank shrugged. "Well, maybe it'll take a little time before we work up to that," he said. "We still have to do that sleepover first-- you know, the one with the fire, and the hot chocolate, and the cider--"

Eric threw up his hands. "Alright, alright, enough!" he said. "You don't have to keep listing out all this stuff, I get what you're trying to say!"

Hank grinned and leaned back in his bed; the blanket draped around his shoulders nearly fell off. "Alright, I'm done, I promise. But I think the important question is, is it working? Do you want to come back home now?"

Eric's mouth worked as he thought, and he looked a little surprised at the answer he came to. "Uh. Kind of? Maybe? Yes? I dunno."

Hank sighed, and leaned back against the wall, suddenly exhausted. "Good." He waved his hand. "I'm not asking you to be all suddenly gung-ho again, mind you," he said. "It'll take time. Just... come with us. Don't give up quite yet."

Eric ran a hand through his hair, and though it left his hair a mess again, Hank refrained from mentioning it this time. "Okay," he said.

"Okay?"

"Okay, I'll keep coming with you. Okay, I won't give up. Geez, good enough?" Eric rolled his eyes, exasperated, but underneath it all Hank thought he seemed a little lighter, a little less unhappy. Like he had something to look forward to. Hank relaxed fully, feeling much better himself.

Eric, though, was still clutching his cloak around himself as if he were freezing, and it occurred to Hank that he had a solution to that, too. "Still cold?" he asked.

Eric frowned, then looked down at his clenching fingers as if he'd forgotten. "Yeah."

Hank stood, a little wobbly, dragging a blanket behind him. Stepping up to the foot of Eric's chair, he said, "Scoot."

Eric blinked at him uncomprehendingly. "There is nowhere enough room for the both of us on this chair," he said.

Hank examined it; it was a large, plush chair, nearly a love seat, and Eric was clearly wrong. "Sure there is. Now scoot."

A myriad number of expressions crossed across Eric's face. Finally he seemed to realize that Hank was being entirely serious, and was in fact not going to move until he got his way. Heaving a great sigh, he shifted over into one corner, automatically pushing his cloak back so Hank could slide in. Hank sat down next to him, and wrapped the blanket around them both.

Gradually Eric's shivers abated, then stopped. He leaned against Hank's side, looking relaxed for the first time Hank had seen him in weeks.

"See?" Hank said, grinning wryly. "Body heat helps. I had a friend, he said he saw it in a movie once."

***

A week later, Hank was feeling mostly back to normal, and as much as they'd appreciated the down-time, the others were starting to get restive, too. It was time to be moving on.

"Ready to go looking for a way home?" Hank asked Eric quietly, as Diana and Presto loaded up their pseudo-horses with the supplies the villagers had provided. The entire village had turned out to watch them go-- apparently they'd grown quite attached while Hank and Eric had been recuperating. Hank had even heard someone claim he would miss Presto's magic tricks.

Eric sighed dramatically, but there was a fond undercurrent to the sound. "I suppose so," he said, rolling his eyes. "I hear I have a reason this time."

Hank grinned. Together, the six of them rode out.

**Author's Note:**

> For the record, Eric is totally wrong about the "you lost 40% of your body heat through your head" thing. It's more like 7%.


End file.
